


The Devil Is in the Details

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson gets a minor injury while on a case, and Holmes feels responsible. His feelings of guilt goad him to help Watson in any way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Is in the Details

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for vsee. A little bird told me she might like enjoy something like this. (Hope you like it, Vee.)
> 
> Thanks very, very much to pharis, who beta’d this for me and told me where the story should really end instead of letting me ramble on for another 1,000 words. As always, I appreciate the help more than I can say. (You come to visit, and I put you to work!)

“Holmes!” Watson called. “There!”

Holmes’ eyes snapped to look at Watson, then followed the line of his arm. A shadow slipped around the corner, and Holmes sped after it. The suspect was a bandy-legged little fellow, surprisingly fast. Holmes gained on him, though he wove through the maze of alleys like a sewer rat. He threw himself over a low brick wall, out onto a busy thoroughfare. Holmes gave chase, dodging carriages while drivers cursed at him.

As Holmes reached the storefronts on the other side, the man turned into a quieter side street, and Holmes sprinted to follow. He turned the corner in time to see the culprit run directly into the path of a policeman on his rounds. At Holmes’ shouted warning, the constable grabbed the man and pushed him to the ground.

By the time Watson caught up, Holmes was standing by, hands clasped behind his back, while the constable literally sat on the incensed suspect to keep him still. Watson laughed at the sight, pleased at the fortuitous capture, and Holmes’ eye was drawn to Watson’s mouth.

In truth, there was little need for Holmes to pay any particular attention to Watson’s person, as he was already well acquainted with it. Being with the man the larger part of every day provided ample opportunity for absorbing without any effort whatsoever even the slightest change to his appearance.

Holmes saw when Watson got ink stains on his cuffs and noted the regularity with which he asked Mrs. Hudson to clean and press his suits. He knew when Watson got a haircut or trimmed his fingernails and could determine without looking at his feet which of his two favorite pairs of boots he was wearing, for one pair made him almost half an inch taller than the other. In addition, Holmes had a complete mental catalogue of the multiple scars marking Watson’s skin, starting with the jagged pale ridge on his left kneecap, the result of falling on a broken garden paver at age six.

Holmes needed only to observe the way Watson walked for evidence of his more serious, more recent injuries and had long since established in his mind the indicators of fatigue in Watson’s leg as well as the signs that it was not troubling him. It was as if Watson’s limbs were extensions of his own, and he instinctively knew how much they could withstand on any given day.

Usually, the facts regarding Watson’s body that Holmes had filed away in his brain served to keep him safe. When he concentrated on the various parts and ignored the rather pleasing sum they created, Holmes did not feel himself to be in danger. However, there were moments like this, when Holmes was unable to ignore the insistent feeling that welled up, when he let his guard slip and allowed himself to truly see Watson, in his entirety. Lately, those moments had been taking him by surprise with alarming frequency.

If asked, Holmes would have been able to report that Watson practiced good dental hygiene and that his coloring was usually healthy, but he could not so dispassionately recount what it was he found so very distracting in the contrast between Watson’s straight, white teeth and his lightly tanned skin, still slightly flushed from the exertion of running. He could not tear his eyes away.

There was another man, the thief’s accomplice, who had been pursuing them, slower than the others because of his great size. Holmes should have seen him, should have heard his clomping strides, but his gaze was fixed on Watson’s face. The man slammed into Watson where he stood, knocking him onto the cobblestones.

He let out a grunt in his surprise and threw out his arms to catch himself. When Watson fell on the pavement, Holmes heard the sickening snap of bone breaking, and it was as if something had shattered in his own chest as well, for he could not breathe. He was frozen where he stood. Then the constable blew his whistle, signalling for help, and Holmes recovered himself, rushing to kneel at Watson’s side. He had rolled onto his back and was cradling his right arm against his chest.

“Watson, your arm…”

“Yes, it’s broken,” Watson answered. His face was grim.

A second policeman ran past and began a breathless conversation with the first.

“Help me get up,” Watson said. Holmes stood and put a hand under each of Watson’s arms, easing him as gently as possible to his feet. He wobbled a bit, so Holmes kept a steadying hand on his elbow. The noise of a carriage made Watson flinch and hunch his shoulders. Holmes guided him toward the disorganized knot of blue uniforms. When one man looked their way, Holmes raised his arm to get his attention.

“Constable!” Holmes snapped. “Dr. Watson needs a hospital.”

Watson leaned into Holmes and spoke softly. “I’d rather go see Hughes. He’ll take care of it with a minimum of fuss.”

If Watson trusted Hughes enough to ask him to take over his own practice from time to time, perhaps Watson would be safe enough in his care. Holmes nodded, and Watson began to walk off on his own. Holmes insisted on accompanying him back to the busier street to make certain he was able to find a cab. Just before Holmes shut the door, Watson put out a hand to stop him.

“Holmes, why did you not go after the other fellow?”

Holmes was surprised. The thought had not even occurred to him. Once he had seen Watson sprawled in the street, he had forgotten completely about the man who had pushed him.

“You were injured. I was.…” _Distracted_ , Holmes had been about to say. “Overconfident. I could not believe he would get very far. I should have—”

“Nonsense,” Watson said with a strange expression on his face. He nodded in the direction of the increasingly large crowd of policemen surrounding their suspect. “Go on then.”

As he watched the hansom pull away, Holmes frowned. He did not like letting Watson go alone. Watson had been injured before, of course, but never had Holmes been staring, helpless, watching it happen. Never before had Holmes felt so directly at fault, been so shamefully careless. Holmes felt a surge of anger that Watson should be hurt so—with all of the danger Watson had faced, it seemed laughable that he had been injured while standing in a quiet city street.

When Holmes returned that evening, Watson had already retired. Holmes crept to his bedroom door and listened, but there was no sound. Sleep was impossible. Holmes paced the sitting room. By sunrise, he had smoked every shred of tobacco in the house.

Late in the morning, Holmes heard Watson moving about behind his door, but it was several hours before he emerged, and then it was only for a short while. He looked pale, and his eyes were shadowed. The bandages binding his injury were glaringly white. Holmes noted the awkward way in which Watson held his arm and berated himself anew for his negligence.

For a week Watson kept mostly to his room, leaving Holmes with nothing to do. He thought Watson might be angry with him, for when they met briefly in the corridor, Watson would not meet his eye. One morning Holmes stood on the landing, deciding whether he ought to knock, when he heard Watson inhale in a pained hiss. Without pause, much less a knock, Holmes barged into Watson’s bedroom.

Watson stood at his bureau, naked to the waist and trousers still undone. He held his razor in his left hand, but when Holmes burst in he dropped it and fumbled to fasten his buttons. “Holmes, really.”

“My apologies. I could hear you were distressed.” Holmes was careful to keep his attention focused on Watson’s face. It was half-covered with shaving soap, which was beginning to drip onto his chest. Watson turned away, and when he did, Holmes saw a trickle of blood creeping down his neck.

“Watson, you’ve—”

“Yes, I know,” Watson answered with a sigh as he dabbed at the nick with a rag. “I’ve had a devil of time trying to do this left-handed.”

Watson turned back to the mirror and picked up his razor. Holmes eyes wandered over the expanse of Watson’s shoulders and began to slide down his back before he caught himself and looked down at his own feet.

“Perhaps I could be of some assistance?” Holmes gaze was irresistibly pulled back to Watson.

“That’s not necessary,” Watson said. He lifted the razor to his face and immediately cut himself again.

“Watson, I insist. It’s foolish to cut yourself to ribbons when I can easily lend a hand.”

Watson dabbed at his two small wounds several times before he nodded. He wiped off the remainder of the soap, which was thinning and dripping too much to be of further use. They would have to start from the beginning. Watson appeared lopsided: a small section of the right side of his face was clean-shaven, and the remainder showed longer whiskers than Holmes had ever seen on Watson: a full week’s worth of growth.

Holmes pulled the chair out of the corner and set it next to the bureau. He checked the blade, and when he reached for the strop, he heard Watson’s sigh.

“For God’s sake, Holmes. Let’s not drag this out any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Holmes ignored this remark, turning his attention to sharpening the razor. When he was satisfied that he was ready to begin, he nodded at Watson to come and sit.

Watson tilted his head back onto the chair, eyes closed and patiently waiting. Holmes took the towel from the basin of hot water on the bureau and spread it over the lower half of Watson’s face. One eye opened, and Watson’s voice come out muffled from under the cloth. “This is ridiculous.”

A stern look was Holmes’ only response. He removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and picked up Watson’s shaving mug, working the brush against the soap to build up a good bit of lather. Holmes removed towel, set it aside, and applied the soap, starting with Watson’s chin. The room was silent as Holmes stepped close and picked up the razor.

Watson shifted so that his head rested against Holmes’ belly, and Holmes marveled that Watson was so trusting, baring his throat without hesitation. Holmes would feel the same security were their places reversed, of course, but Holmes felt Watson’s confidence was perhaps not so very well deserved.

He set the fingertips of his left hand carefully on Watson’s right cheekbone, pulling the skin taut. Watson was still and calm as Holmes took his first stroke with the razor. After rinsing the blade in the basin, Holmes cut another swathe through the foam. A dollop of soap fell as he withdrew his hand. He watched it slip over the smooth skin just below Watson’s collarbone and drip down into the hair on his chest. The movement of Watson’s chest was hypnotic, rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

Several moments passed before Holmes remembered himself and cleaned the razor. The next stroke of the razor came close to the corner of Watson’s mouth, and his eyes opened.

“Mind the moustache.”

“Yes, yes.” Holmes maneuvered the razor over Watson’s chin. “Why did you not allow me to come with you?”

“To see Hughes?”

“Yes.”

Watson laughed—just tiny puffs of air out of his nose so that he would keep still. “Have you ever seen a broken bone being set?” he asked when Holmes moved the razor away to rinse it. “No, I’d rather be alone during that entertaining procedure.”

Holmes’ stomach clenched.

“It’s much better now,” Watson said. It was as if he had heard Holmes’ thoughts and was answering his unspoken question. “I hardly notice it today.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.” Holmes next turned his attention to the right side of Watson’s neck. He was especially careful not to miss any whiskers under the strong line of Watson’s jaw.

Watson spoke quietly. “Why did you want to come?”

Holmes stood up straight. “I was to blame.”

Watson eyes opened, and he scowled up at Holmes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I allowed myself to be distracted. I ought not—”

“I was distracted as well,” Watson interrupted.

“Watson—”

“It was not your fault,” Watson said decidedly.

Holmes could not think how to answer. Watson’s eyes closed once more. Holmes hesitated before beginning again, studying the plane of Watson’s cheek, the curve of his lower lip. A gentle nudge was enough to make Watson turn his head, and Holmes could not ignore the strength and grace in the simple curve of his neck. Even the finest sculptor would not do it justice.

_Sternocleidomastoideus_ , Holmes thought, scolding himself for such a fanciful sentiment. _Platysma, trapezius_. But it was hopeless to attempt to think clinically. Watson’s warm flesh under his hands was far more than a collection of muscle tissue. There seemed little use in pretending any longer that focusing on all of those minute details accomplished anything other than drawing Holmes’ attention with an even sharper focus to Watson’s attractions.

“Holmes?”

Watson’s obvious impatience brought Holmes’ attention back to his task. It would not do to rush, but Holmes no longer lingered. It would be unwise to prolong the temptation of being so close, even having been given permission to touch Watson in such an intimate manner.

Holmes drew the razor over the last bit of stubble, then set it aside. He picked up a towel from the bureau and wiped away the small dots of lather left here and there on Watson’s skin.

“I’ve finished,” Holmes said as he stepped away.

Watson lifted his head when Holmes moved out from behind him. Walking around to face Watson, Holmes looked down into his upturned face. His fingers itched to touch, to glide over Watson’s smooth, warm skin. Watson looked up at Holmes, meeting his eye for the first time since he had entered the room. It would be such a simple thing to lean down, to move slowly closer until their lips touched. Instead Holmes turned away.

“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said softly.

Holmes could hear Watson rise from the chair and go to the wardrobe. When Holmes allowed himself to look again, Watson had pulled on a shirt and was struggling with the buttons, his right hand clumsy. He gave a frustrated sigh.

Without asking leave, Holmes crossed the room to help. He looked only at his own fingers as they worked, but he could feel Watson’s warmth radiating through the soft cotton. He could not help but look up. Watson’s face was mere inches away. Holmes looked directly into Watson’s eyes, leaning closer still, until their lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. A small sound escaped from Watson’s mouth, little more than a breath, and Holmes kissed him. It was tentative, as gentle as Holmes could be with his blood racing. He lifted his hands to cradle Watson’s jaw.

Suddenly Watson pulled away, turning his head to the side. He looked horrified. Holmes felt his knees begin to quiver, but he had been certain that Watson had responded. His mouth had moved under Holmes’, his breathing had quickened, and there had been a heartbeat of hesitation before he had pulled away.

“Watson—”

“Don’t,” Watson said. “Please.”

His voice sounded strained.

“Watson, please. For so very long I’ve wanted—” Holmes broke off when he saw Watson grimace.

“ _Please_ don’t.”

The lines of Watson’s body were tense. He was backed up against the door of the wardrobe, his entire manner defensive and fearful—it was impossible to imagine a more jarring contrast than between his posture now and that when Holmes had held a blade at his throat.

“Watson.”

Holmes reached up to wipe away a streak of lather that still clung to Watson’s jaw under his ear. Watson cringed at the touch, but his eyes closed, and his head turned almost imperceptibly toward Holmes’ hand. That tiny movement spoke volumes, but Holmes wanted further proof. He ran one finger lightly along the line of Watson’s jaw, then across his lower lip. Watson flinched as if pained, but his lips parted, and he did not pull away.

Holmes held his breath. Perhaps he could coerce Watson into submitting to his advances. Indeed, he was certain he could—where had he ever gone where Watson would not follow? Holmes could coax and manipulate and make Watson completely his own by sheer force of will. But Holmes did not want Watson to come to him reluctantly and instead hoped that he could be persuaded by gentler means. Holmes leaned close for a kiss, and Watson let out a small whimper.

So often Holmes had thought what it would be like to touch Watson, to embrace him, but his imaginings had come far short of reality—Watson felt so very solid, his skin warm under Holmes’ hands as they slid inside the partially buttoned shirt. Holmes parted Watson’s lips with his tongue, and Watson tilted his head to deepen the kiss, but then his hand rose to press at Holmes’ shirtfront.

Tearing himself away from Watson’s mouth, Holmes pulled back. He would not have thought it possible, but Watson appeared even more distressed than before.

“Shall I stop?” Holmes said quietly.

Watson did not answer but opened his eyes. Holmes could see the fear written there. 

“My dear Watson, don’t you think there’s enough cleverness between us to keep this hidden from the world?”

Watson still did not speak.

“After all, we kept it from one another, all this time.”

Watson’s posture sagged, and his expression turned surprised. “But I thought you knew. I was certain you did.”

Holmes touched Watson’s cheek. Watson spoke again, rambling in his nervousness.

“And if you hadn’t known before, I thought you must now, after what happened. I couldn’t stop staring. Just standing there in the street, grinning at you like an idiot. I’ve been afraid to face you. Hiding in my room. But then this morning, you’ve been behaving as if nothing were wrong.” Watson shook his head. “I didn’t know what to make it of it.”

Holmes dared move close for another kiss, and Watson’s arm crept around his waist. Holmes slid his hand to the back of Watson’s neck and up into his hair. A great shuddering sigh seemed to pull all of the air out of Watson’s body, and as his tension eased he melted into Holmes, pressing close until there was no space between them. Another kiss, long and deep, drew a groan from Watson, and his arm tightened around Holmes’ waist.

It surprised Holmes that Watson almost immediately prodded him toward the bed. He had been determined not to drive Watson forward too quickly, but he could not find it in himself to argue or delay. They stumbled across the room, Watson’s arm still wrapped around Holmes and their mouths sealed together, unwilling to separate for even those few steps. They stopped at the side of the bed.

Watson’s hand rose to Holmes’ face. The injured arm was clumsy in its wrappings, and the touch was more a thump than a caress. Watson pulled away and winced, but Holmes stopped his apology with more kisses, then took Watson’s hand to kiss his fingers.

Watson pulled his hand away and, impatient, sought Holmes’ mouth. Watson’s eagerness made Holmes’ heart pound. His fingers found the buttons he had so recently fastened, tearing them open so that he could explore Watson’s skin with his mouth, countless kisses over those magnificent curves in his neck, then a wet, gliding trail down onto Watson’s chest with his tongue.

Watson gasped when Holmes’ mouth found his nipple, and his fingers threaded into Holmes’ hair, holding him there for a moment before pulling him up for another kiss. Holmes pushed Watson’s shirt off his shoulders, tugging it off on the one side, then carefully easing it over the bandages on the other. He kissed Watson again, his hands sliding across Watson’s strong back, meeting in the valley of his spine and traveling up it to touch his shoulders and neck.

All at once Holmes found himself falling as Watson pulled him down onto the bed. They landed, tangled together, with no pause in their kisses. Watson’s hand pulled Holmes’ shirttail out of his trousers and slid up underneath, his fingers hot on Holmes’ back.

Holmes pushed away only far enough to look down on Watson, to see his face, no longer distraught and anxious. He smiled at Holmes now and craned his neck up for another kiss. He pushed Holmes’ shirt up toward his shoulders, and Holmes knelt to pull it off over his head, not bothering with the buttons.

Watson smiled again, even more widely, and his left arm rose to draw Holmes down again, but Holmes reached for Watson’s trousers, desperately wanting to see all of him, every inch of his body. As Holmes pushed the first button free from the fabric, Watson moaned in anticipation. His head fell back, his eyes closed, and his breathing was loud and quick.

Holmes went slowly, unfastening each button, then sliding the trousers down until Watson was naked before him. It made Holmes pause, and he almost dared not touch, but his hands could not keep still. They wandered up Watson’s shins, over the lean muscles of his thighs, clasping on his hips, all the while drinking in the sight of Watson’s skin, the shifting of each muscle as he moved to meet Holmes’ touch.

Finally Holmes touched Watson’s cock. Watson let out a low moan as Holmes began to stroke slowly up and down. Bending closer, Holmes saw the bead of glistening wetness at the tip, and his mouth watered, but Watson was saying his name, his voice coming out in gasps.

“Please,” Watson pleaded. “Please. Holmes.”

Holmes looked up at Watson’s face.

“Kiss me.” Watson grabbed at Holmes’ arms. “Come here.”

Holmes crawled up the bed, and Watson drew him down into a kiss. For a moment Holmes felt the wonderful pressure of Watson’s thigh against his cock, but then almost immediately, Watson was pushing Holmes away again to reach the front of his trousers. After a few moments of Watson’s left-handed fumbling, Holmes slid off the bed, stripped off the last of his clothes, and turned back. Already Watson had his arm outstretched to tug Holmes back, hauling him off his feet.

Holmes covered Watson’s mouth with his own as he settled himself onto Watson’s body. The feeling of Watson’s warm belly on his cock was irresistible, and Holmes pushed forward. Watson wound his arms more tightly around Holmes’ body and pushed back with his hips. Holmes moaned into Watson’s mouth as he felt Watson’s cock slide against his.

“Yes,” Watson panted. “God, yes.”

They thrust frantically, awkwardly, only briefly before their bodies learned to work together as seamlessly in this as in all things. Almost before Holmes moved, Watson responded, tilting his head, canting his hips. Moving as one, effortless.

When Watson’s hands slid down to hold Holmes’ hips, Holmes pushed up off the bed to see Watson’s face. He half-opened his eyes briefly before his lids fell heavily closed once again. He looked lost in pleasure, drunk on it. His hands clasped more tightly, and he began to rock his hips more quickly.

His grip on Holmes’ hips grew almost painful. Then Watson’s body tensed, but Holmes did not slow his own movements. Watson cried out, and Holmes felt the wet heat of Watson’s release spreading between them. A deep, almost feral sound rumbled out of Holmes’ throat. He fell onto Watson and kissed him, plunging his tongue deep into Watson’s mouth. His cock slid between the now slippery skin of their bellies. The almost frictionless, hot glide of it was maddening. He heard Watson gasp his name, and it drove him to push even more wildly against Watson’s body. All too quickly, he could feel the heat building deep in his belly. He shouted as he came, pulses of overwhelming sensation tearing through him until he collapsed.

Watson’s hand curled around the back of Holmes’ head, pressing it against Watson’s shoulder. Holmes listened as their breathing quieted, and the room was still. Wheels clattered by on the street outside, and Holmes was struck with the realization that it was broad daylight. The city was wide awake and busy, and he had an appointment with a client at eleven o’clock. He shut his eyes. Surely they would be safe from intrusion for a little while longer.

He lifted his head to find Watson’s mouth. When their lips parted, Holmes drew away in order to see Watson, who smiled a bit shyly. He turned his face to one side, drawing Holmes’ attention once again to the beautiful line of his neck. Holmes traced a slow line of kisses from Watson’s ear down to his collarbone.

Then Watson pulled him down onto the bed, twining their bodies together such that Holmes could hardly tell which limbs were his own and which were Watson’s. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into Watson’s neck, savouring the scent of shaving soap and the weight of Watson’s bulkily wrapped arm lying across his shoulders.

The End


End file.
